Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

 I went to Texas Roadhouse with my neighbors, Kenny and Ray. The hostess asked how many. I said three. “Stand over there by that ‘IceColdBeer’ poster.” Great (I’m a recovering alcoholic). Kenny said don’t look at it ( they know my story). There was a sign advertising “mocktails.” What’s the point? More like mocking my addiction ( my ex-boyfriend said he didn’t believe I was a real alcoholic). Anyways, Kenny and I got steak, Ray got boneless wings. The entree came with two sides so I got a Caesar salad and a baked potato, plus there was free bread, and we ordered a “ bloomin onion.” Ray joked with the waitress: “I’ll have that cute little bartender…(she’s female)…Oh, how about her husband?” ( He is gay). Come to find out, the waitress is from the same area in upstate New York as Ray is, near Pine Bush. “It’s a small world, huh?” He went out to smoke while Kenny and I ate our salads (Kenny brings his own French dressing). When he came back he said “I met a nice lesbian.” I ordered my...

 I didn’t write when I was actively drinking, focused on more immediate sources of pleasure. Plus, the way I drank didn’t permit introspection; noticing the flowers, commenting on the taste of beer. Anne Lamott was different, going to writing retreats with her own stash of liquor, getting drunk off her ass ( my forte as well). Anyways, I didn’t (drink in moderation) imbibe just enough to get in the writing spirit, but enough to obscure my thoughts and my handwriting to slurred letters. I liked to consume: music. It was all about the music, what song could evoke the most emotional of emotions: “Free Bird,” “The Crow Chasing the Butterfly,” “Closer to the Heart,” “More than a Feeling.” But it was feel good music too: Sugar Ray, Chicago, Rush (I like the alliteration there). I would work YouTube until I was blurry-eyed and spent, when John would take burning cigarette out of my hand and put me to bed. He bought a new speaker set, sensing my enthusiasm for loud tunes. I tried to look u...

 It’s gloomy and threatens to rain, here in Port Orange, Florida. I’m on a cigarette and coffee binge, my own C&C (Music) Factory. Stahl is rubbing off. My Luckies are stacked on top of my Newport’s, hard pack on soft pack, A Tale of Two Cigarettes, Romeo and Juliet. “Can you spare some change?” Can you spare me cancer at my own hands, so used to gripping soft sticks and flicking ashes. I see a Poem ahead. I see a writer, dead. Christopher Hitchens would be proud, minus the whiskey ( or Scotch? Seems more sophisticated).